


Bystander, Standing By

by tobinlaughing



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Black Widow - Freeform, Captain America - Freeform, Gen, OFC - Freeform, Original Female Character - Freeform, POV Original Character, brief hostage situation, civilian POV, natasha romanov - Freeform, non-canon, steve rogers - Freeform, unnamed villian, what happens to the ordinary people when the superheroes start swinging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 06:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16279583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobinlaughing/pseuds/tobinlaughing
Summary: Inspired by the climactic cafe scene inMission Impossible: Rogue Nation, which had me wondering what happens to the regular people who get trapped in the superhero/supervillain crossfire. I mean, there has to be a better place to make your spy-vs-spy scene happen than a crowded public cafe in the middle of a city.Right?





	Bystander, Standing By

The last kiss probably shouldn’t have been this one; the one before had been sweet, lingering, tasting of butter and chocolate and coffee. This one--two minutes after he really should have left already--was rushed, a little too hard, pushing my lips into my teeth. His two-day stubble scraped against my chin, and I had to quickly turn my grimace into a sad smile as he pulled away. 

“I’ll text you when I land in Berlin,” he promised, scooping his backpack off the ground and slinging it around his shoulders, already ten steps away and weaving his way through the short maze of wrought-iron cafe tables and chairs. I sighed, waving wistfully as he turned back once at the corner before disappearing into the Metro station. Lukas had been a great guy to go around with here in Paris, and I’d miss him on the next leg of my trip; still, I’d only met him at the hostel in Barcelona two weeks ago, and I didn’t have any plans to follow him back to Germany. He’d asked me to change my ticket to London yesterday, and been more than a little crestfallen when I’d declined. We’d kissed and made up in time to have a great last morning together in Paris, and now he was off to Berlin. I had another three hours before my own train left, and the afternoon promised to be absolutely lovely for lingering in this little cafe and people-watching outside of Gare du Nord. 

I sighed again, then scooted my chair over to get a better angle out of the sun and pulled out my phone. I’d downloaded a couple full runs of comics before leaving London, but my unexpected companion had left me with very little time to catch up on Rat Queens and Saga over the last week and a half. The pleasant murmur of traffic and French conversation washed around me, warm like the sunlight. 

I only caught the voices behind me because they were speaking English, unaccented, which was something I hadn’t heard in more than a month. The cold American cut through the ripples of French from the shadow of the cafe. 

“...knew it had to come to this.” The first voice wasn’t loud at all, but it was more intense than anything I’d heard outside of a movie. I didn’t turn my head, but I shifted in my seat, trying to get a better angle by which to eavesdrop. 

“Of course. We are ever moving in circles, you and I, and the wheel turns us back around, again and again, to this same little scene.”

I grabbed for my coffee and took a quick sip so I wouldn’t giggle. The second man’s voice was just as intense, lacking volume but making up for it in tense rage. Was this some weird breakup? Should I be livetweeting this? I had closed my comics and opened the twitter app before I realized it, but quickly shut that down, too. Nobody likes being spied on, and broadcasting these guys’ relationship issues to the world would be nothing but a dick move. Still, I couldn’t help my interest.

“I gave you what I promised. You have the disc, you have the passcodes. There’s no reason we can’t just both walk away.”

“A lie of omission is still a sin, dear captain. The disc is no good to me encrypted and your passcodes don’t work unless the encryption is disabled first. You’re still on the hook for this one.”

 _What what whaaaaat?_ I leaned over to retrieve my bag, using the move as an excuse to shift in my chair as much as the Parisian wrought-iron would allow. _Disc_ and _passwords_ and _encryption_ sounded a lot less romantic and more spy-vs-spy. _There’s no way,_ I thought. No one talks that way outside of, like, a _Mission Impossible_ movie or something. I pretended to rummage in my bag, turning a little more in my seat. 

The table behind me was occupied by two men--as I’d heard--and a woman, who sat with her back to one of them. I couldn’t look long, even with my giant touristy sunglasses on, and the way I’d positioned myself put my back to one of the men and the woman almost directly over my shoulder. Her back was to me, and all I could see clearly was her long auburn hair. With a quick upward glance I stole a look at the other man. He was well-dressed, also in sunglasses, with neat brown hair and a narrow face; that’s all I could tell, before my fingers closed on my battery-brick and I couldn’t convince myself to keep rooting in my bag. I slowly slid my bag onto the table and turned back to my original position. I didn’t realize I’d gone through with actually plugging my phone into the battery until my trembling fingers laid it back on the table top. 

I looked around the cafe as slowly and casually as I could, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The tables around were nearly all occupied, and almost all of the occupants, I suddenly realized, were men. They were seated in pairs, with the occasional woman scattered every three or four tables, most all of them wearing sunglasses or hats or both. No one had a drink in hand, although some of them had cups in front of them. No one was…. _doing_ anything: playing on a phone or talking or holding hands or _anything._

 _Oh shit_ , I thought, and fought hard to a) keep from slapping a hand over my mouth and b) stop the hysterical giggle that wanted to bubble past my lips. People were still walking by on the street, cars were still swinging by, and across the broad avenue Gare du Nord was still accepting and expelling train passengers. Half an hour ago, Lukas and I had been here amongst other sun-kissed and romantic couples, savoring our last moments together; now I could readily believe I was the only person not a spy or hitman sitting in this cafe. 

_Um._

_And to my everlasting good luck_ , one of the spy-hitmen at another adjacent table noticed me looking around. He locked eyes with me and his scowl became a great, craggy frown; without looking away he tapped the other guy at the table on the shoulder and jerked his chin at me. My breath froze in my throat and I clutched at my bag , the zipper clattering against the filigreed iron tabletop. The two goons stood, pushing past the other chairs with an astonishing amount of noise.

“Gentlemen?” The second man called over, his voice almost mild. I looked around frantically, even though I knew there wasn’t any possible way to get away. One goon’s hand landed on my shoulder; the other took my backpack from me, almost gently. 

“An _anomaly_ , boss,” rumbled the first goon. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even _blink._

“Bring her over,” the ‘boss’ ordered. “I’ve never liked sitting at an unbalanced table.”  
“Well, my _dear_ ,” he purred, and as hard as I was trying to keep my eyes averted, “it seems that you’ve become involved in our little affair here. I do hope you enjoyed your pastry. It was most likely the last thing you’ll ever enjoy.”

The wrought-iron chair was cold under my thighs and I’d slid into it awkwardly, scraping one hip on the curving arm of the chair in an effort to be as pliant and non-threatening as possible. I clutched my bag on my lap, aware of nothing so much as the whistle of air down the back of my throat and the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. I was pretty sure they could all see me jump with each beat of my heart. 

The woman leaned across the table and gently reached out. I flinched, but she only grasped the sunglasses I still wore and drew them slowly off my face, setting them carefully in front of me. That done, she settled back with her hands in her lap and said, “ _N'aie pas peur. Ce sera bientôt fini, je le promets._ ” Her accent was so much better than mine would ever be--she was probably a native speaker, and I’d only acquired French via learn-in-your-car lessons. 

My response bubbled out before I could think: it was the same phrase I’d repeated to panhandlers, hawkers, street vendors, and all the other people in Paris who’d tried to sell me things I didn’t want. “ _Je suis désolé, mademoiselle, mais je ne parle pas francais._ ” As soon as I’d said it I clapped a hand over my mouth so I couldn’t follow word vomit with actual vomit. 

The three stared at me. Then the narrow-faced man on my left smiled, slowly. “Our guest has a sense of humor, it seems. Well, captain. Does this sufficiently enforce my resolve?” He gestured to me, a sharp movement of his chin. “She and everyone else here will be forfeit to your arrogance if you do not give me what I want.”

I looked at the second man, the one on my right, for the first time. Blond, square-jawed, and big, he sat almost perfectly still in his chair, as though the afternoon breeze didn’t dare ruffle even a hair on his head. He stared at the narrow-faced man, eyebrows drawn tight down in a scowl. “The discs and passcodes were the deal. That’s all. I’ve done my part and you’ve done yours. All we need to do is walk away. Nothing else was on the table.”

“And _she_ \--” the man on the left grabbed my arm, hard. His fingers were like claws and dug in as hard as he could. I yelped, and he shook me. “-- _she_ was not sitting at the table. Now she is, and the deal is changed. Decryption key or no one leaves here. Not you, not me, no one.” He yanked again, and the arm of the chair dug hard into my side. 

The other woman sat, watching impassively. I stared at her, leaning over the arm of my chair, the narrow-faced man’s fingers still tight around my upper arm. I could feel trickles of sweat working their way beneath my hair to the left side of my head and beginning to slide down towards my ear, even as my back began to cramp in protest of this stupid twisting posture. I squirmed, just a little, to try to get the iron arm of the chair out of my bottom rib, and he yanked again.

My fear broke--just like that. I yanked back, sitting down hard on my right side and pulling all my weight away from him, flexing my arm and shoulder to try to break his grip. He lurched towards me with a blurt of surprise, fingers coming free; the table jumped as he was jammed into the edge with an audible grunt. I scooted as far away as I could before the hired gun behind me--about whom I’d completely forgotten--dug his own hand into my hair and pulled, pinning me back against the chair. 

“Naughty girl,” the narrow-faced man wheezed, and swung his arm up. I flinched, expecting a slap, but none came; instead, when I opened my eyes, there was something weird and metallic and definitely a gun leveled at my face. Fear flooded my mouth, roaring in my ears. I’d never held a gun, never really seen one up close. It was a lot smaller than I expected. 

“Do you have any idea where your _stupidity_ has landed you?” He demanded, and made a motion with his hand behind the gun, and there was a clicking noise. 

There was a heaving jolt and a loud sharp noise and I was flying and I swear he shot me but it wasn’t a single noise, the noise kept going on and on in staccato bursts and clangs and that horrible sound wrought-iron patio furniture makes when shoved across paving stones. I was on the ground, then I was being hauled up by my elbows again, and then I was on my feet and being pushed through the narrow, winding corridor between the tables and into an alley, I think, between the cafe and the building next to it…

Everything felt like a bad sunburn: my throat was raw, like I’d been screaming, the air I sucked down was hotter than coffee. A hand-sized swath of my scalp burned and tingled at the same time where the hired man had pulled me back by my hair. My eyes stung and my skin prickled with the impression of thousands of running ants--I was sweating, profusely, embarrassingly, tears and snot and sweat streaming down my face. 

Big hands, strong hands, took me by the shoulders and pressed me back against the bricks as another burst of gunfire sounded from the plaza behind us. I flinched and felt my loosened hair catch in the rough brick, more hot prickles on my skull. I looked up warily into the face of the second man--the blond who hadn't shoved a gun in my face. 

“You ok, kiddo?” He asked, searching my face with his big, earnest blue eyes. A curl of golden hair fell over his broad forehead and I suddenly realized I'd seen him before--on news banners on Facebook, on billboards, on talk TV. 

I'd been saved from being shot in the face in a Parisian cafe, in broad daylight, by Captain America. 

“ _S'il te plait, dis moi tu vas bien_ ,” he said, and I sucked in a deep breath. Why was _everyone else's_ French accent so much better than mine?

“I really don't speak French--” I said. My voice sounded like a bad, scratchy recording, but Captain America's face relaxed, going from Heroic Soldier to Golden Boy in a heartbeat. 

“Stay here,” he said sternly, the Hero mask dropping back into place almost instantly. “The police will be here soon, and you'll be safe. Ok?”

When else was I going to get the chance? I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him--messily, awkwardly, but with all the desperate gratitude coursing through my feverish brain. He didn't fight it, either, and I wondered later (much later) if this happened to him a lot. He pushed away after a few seconds, pinned me back against the wall, and then winked at me.

“I'll take that one for luck, doll,” he grinned, and then was gone so fast I swear my hair was tossed back by the wind he created.

I wouldn't catch a train til later...much later. Gare du Nord was shut down and all the trains diverted for a full day. The police came, scooped me and a score of other people into ambulances and police cars, and eventually got me to the airport and onto another flight back to London.

Two weeks later it seemed like I was the only one who remembered what had happened, and even I was kind of trying to forget. I was back Stateside and back to school and back in the swing of normal college life and everything about vacation--from Barcelona to Paris to Lukas to the cafe--seemed far away, not like it hadn’t happened, but more like I’d seen a movie about it that was just a little too real while not being any part of reality. 

I’d had a couple dreams, though, about being trapped in a brick-walled alley, kissing Captain America. 

I was grabbing lunch late after my last class, sitting at a corner table in the big, open dining area of the student union, browsing on my phone, when someone sat across from me, scraping the cheap chair over the linoleum just enough to get my attention. I looked up, expecting someone from one of my classes or one of the girls from my floor--and froze, right to my chair, when I saw the auburn-haired woman from the cafe. 

“You’re safe,” she said, almost immediately, her voice a low purr that I was certain no one else would hear. I still scanned the cafeteria behind her--everyone else still _looked_ like a student, or staff; no one was sitting unnaturally still or wearing dark sunglasses and dark clothing. 

“How--how did you find me?” I managed at last, shivering a little. Her eyes were very blue, and her perfectly red hair was done up in a perfect messy bun--so perfectly messy that it wasn’t messy at all, more _artfully tousled_ than anything. She looked like any other coed on campus, and I realized with a sinking feeling that if she hadn’t shown herself, I’d never have known she was there at all. 

“Not in any way that’s going to put you in danger,” she said in that same velvety voice, “so you don’t have to worry about the bad guys coming at you. Like I said, you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you at all. I just wanted to check up on you.”

I nodded, feeling the muscles in my neck creak. My eyes felt stretched to their limit. 

“Blink,” the woman commanded, and I did, nodding for good measure. 

“Better,” she said, and smiled. It had a transformative effect, the same way...the same way _Captain America’s_ face had changed once he’d heard me speak. The woman went from foreboding perfection to warm friendliness in a split second, and I was glad to see the smile actually reached the corners of her eyes. 

“What, um, what can I, uh, do for you?” I offered finally, forcing my hands to unclench and laying them on the table with what I hoped was casual ease. At least two of my knuckles popped. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” she replied easily. “Like I said, I just wanted to make sure you were ok. You’re not on anyone’s radar, besides being a witness in a French police report, and once I head out tonight, you’ll no longer be being followed by spies.” She winked. I did a little bit of screaming mental math and decided to not add that revelation to my current pile of panic. “I’m going to leave you a card with a phone number that you can call or text if anything weird happens,” she continued, pulling an ordinary-looking messenger bag around from her side and unzipping one of the pockets, “and I want you to use it if you ever feel unsafe, at any time. _At all_ ,” she insisted, sliding the card across the table. When I reached out to take it, she covered my fingers with hers, and I squeaked in surprise. Her touch was cool, and a little shiver danced its way up my arm. 

“Promise me you’ll keep that with you and use it if you need to,” she said gravely, staring at me unblinking. I nodded, then managed to whisper, “I promise.” Her eyes were as blue as Captain America’s had been. My heartbeat quickened, just a bit. I wondered if my next kissing-in-the-alley dream was going to feature a different heroic character.

“Atta girl,” she said, and released my hand. She re-zipped her bag, and stood, swinging it back over one shoulder. “You did well, at the cafe,” she told me, “and I think you should know that we both noticed how well you kept your head when things got messy. Don’t forget that, okay? And be in touch if you need me.” She winked again, and moved off towards the doors at the far end of the hall. I watched her go, card clutched in my hand: it wasn’t a business card, but was plastic, and printed like a credit card. The raised numbers were obviously a ten-digit phone number, though, and the name printed beneath them was simply “Natasha”. I slid the card into my lanyard, behind my student ID, hands shaking just a little. I peered down the length of the cafeteria again, but she-- _Natasha_ \-- was out of sight, possibly already miles away. I blew out my breath, and gathered up the remainder of my lunch.

I wondered if this meant things would go all the way back to normal...or if life would ever be normal again.


End file.
